Warhammer 40K Shorts Toyhammer Omake
by Silvertie
Summary: I don't feel that having seperate stories for each short story I do is useful, so I'll just put them all in here.
1. Silverite and Time

**Michael's room, oh-dark-thirty**

*blam blam blam*

Michael sat up, slowly; his eyes creaking open, unaccustomed to waking up at… hm. He rolled over, and checked his one surviving clock. (The Machine Cult had taken his previous one for 'study'.)

"1:32… in the mornin'?"

With considerable effort, he swung his feet out of bed, and rubbed his eyes before picking up the fire extinguisher. He thought he'd made it clear that there was to be absolutely no combat between 8:30pm and 8:30am; chances were that it was the Orks who didn't get the message.

Walking softly, so as to not disturb any armies with his micro-earthquakes, he padded along, listening for the source of the noises.

*boom*

_That was weird_, Michael thought; it had been a relatively quiet explosion… but who knew what these armies could come up with? Fire-extinguisher ready, he located the source of the noises; the lounge, and stepped in.

* * *

Silverite was having a rare old time. Space Marines did not need much sleep, as a general rule of thumb. But even the newest space marine had his day filed with things like drills and prayer. Grey knights were supposed to spend even more time on prayer. Silverite prayed about one quarter of the time he was supposed to, if he was feeling bored. His outlook was that the god emperor would either protect or forsake him; prayer or no. He was sure the emperor had better things to do than listen to him anyway; he was dead certain that he had better things to do than sit there on his knees and remain immobile for an hour or so.

So, you can imagine how pleased he was when he found Michael's ancient stash of play-doh. After testing it for flammability (not very) and its ability to just sit there in a pre-sculpted shape (very good) he set a plan in motion. Instead of using convenient guardsmen wearing his armor as substitutes for him, he simply filled his armor joints with play-doh, with him outside the armor.

The result: an empty suit of power armor 'praying', a free black-carapace-wearing Silverite, and about two hours free time. He had to leave his hat on the empty armor, or he'd be found out; but it was a small price to pay for time, which was supposed to be the second-hardest currency after the emperor's favor.

Using "Time", He'd painted art on a scrap of canvas ('Me and Heresy', it consisted of a crude drawing of him shooting his bolters into a heretic. The paints and the canvas did not do it justice), ridden a giant Xeno called "fluffy", and read about an entity called "Brangilina" and it's offspring in a giant book. Today, or rather, tonight; Silverite was watching TV. It was a rare thing to be able to watch what he wanted, what with all the Guardsmen and Mechanicus hogging the remote all the time; he'd take his preferred solution and kill them all under the pretext of heresy, but warfare and team-killing was apparently a no-no by decree of Michael and 'ol Amadeus.

Basking in the glow of the TV, the sole source of illumination in the room, Silverite sat on the couch, a packet of "Kettle" potato chips on his right, and a battered-looking and much-modified Tau shield drone on his left… also named Kettle. No prizes for guessing why.

The TV was broadcasting a movie tonight; something called "Die Hard". Whatever it was called, it was amazing. Silverite almost squealed in excitement when this one human, John McLane, managed to escape and/or kill his opponents on multiple occasions.

Kettle rotated to face Silverite, and made some beep and click-whirr noises.

"I'm sure there aren't any Tau fire-warriors or shield drones in this one, Kettle."

*Click click beep whirr*

"Well, what would they do if they were in there? I think we both know what happens when Xeno like Tau get into close combat." Silverite stopped to pick up the half-chip he was eating (which was about as large as a small tank to him) and gnawed a chunk off it. He'd never had "Kettle Potato Chips" before, but damned if he wasn't going to bring some back to the emperor.

*click whirr* Kettle discontinued its questioning, and turned to face the TV, his photoreceptor faithfully recording the action scene for later reference.

* * *

Michael's jaw dropped. No combat like he'd thought, but a nocturnal Space Marine in a Black Carapace and a Shield Drone watching a late night movie. He must be dreaming, or hallucinating. He turned around, and walked less quietly than he had before back to bed. Knowing him, he'd have a full day tomorrow, he needed the rest.

* * *

Silverite got up, put down his chip, and jogged to the edge of the couch, looking at the doorway.

*click whirr beep*

"Didn't you hear anyone?"

*whirr*

"I think I need to upgrade your audio receptors and radar, Kettle." Silverite returned to his seat, and picked up his chip just as the hero of the movie shouted a battle cry and leapt off an exploding building. Silverite pondered this. He'd done a lot of things, but jumping off an exploding thing was not one of them. He made a mental note to do this, and do it as soon as possible. It looked like fun.


	2. Silverite's Origins

+++++++++++++++++++++ Transcription Details ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

From: Librarian Donovan Sride

To: Justicar Amadeus

Subject: Silverite

+++++++++++++++++++++ Transmission Begin ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

_Thought for the day:__ The Emperor protects, prophylactics are superfluous._

_Justicar, as you've previously requested, I have done some digging into Imperial records on this "Silverite" you ask of; now, while I accept that the Imperium's record system leaves a lot to be desired, I find it difficult to believe that I cannot find much at all on this man, if that's what he is._

_I have had to grovel to the High Lords of Terra for a lot of this information, as copies located off-Terra seem to all suffer spontaneous combustion, water damage, and destruction on the battlefield or by Xeno. I don't think this is a coincidence. This left eye-witnesses and second-hand accounts, the former of which predictably is in short supply, and often the best I could do is seventh-hand accounts of rumors. Such as it is, report is as follows._

_

* * *

  
_

According to Inquisition records, there used to be a planet not too far from the Eye of Terror, Arsenia. The planet was said to have an Inquisitorial presence, as well as an Imperial Guard outpost. The planet has an atmosphere which is toxic; fatal within minutes of breathing, so naturally life was hard. Both Imperial Guard and Inquisitorial records correlate the birth of one man named Silverite on this planet. It seems he, like many of his generation, joined the Imperial Guard. After some time, he managed to get into the Inquisitorial Storm troopers.

At this time, there was very little record of what happened. The general upshot is that the planet was attacked by the forces of Chaos, emperor preserve us. From accounts by the orbiting battleship _Comorant_, the Chaos force was only a small one compared to most of the hell-spawn that comes out of the Eye of Terror, but it was more than large enough to overrun the planet. Imperial resistance was high, and to their credit, the Imperial Guard and Inquisitor on the planet managed to hold the spaceport for a long time; but as things seem to be going a lot of late, the planet fell to Chaos. At this point, we sent about one hundred Grey Knights to assess the situation, and pass judgment on the planet. Upon arrival, Brother-Captain Hesphatamon saw the planet to be, I quote "completely unlivable to start with, and more so now that Chaos has a grip on it. They can keep the warp-damned thing, and take it with them to the afterlife."

Apparently, the ships sent were ambushed at this point, the Chaos spawn had their own ship, and they had managed to obliterate our ship's escorts. Priority here was given to launching the exterminatuses over destroying the Chaos ship; regarded in some lights as a poor tactical choice, but given that the battle-barge was not terribly well-armed for ship-ship combat, it was a logical one. Then, the Brother-Captain's prayers to the emperor were answered, as the Chaos ship began to explode from the inside. As he watched it explode, only one boarding ship managed to launch, headed more or less for their aft end, barring some lurching and one explosion which penetrated the hull, before it quickly stopped. Sending a squad of twenty Marines to catch the Chaos spawn as they emerged, the boarding ship penetrated the hull, and was opened only to reveal the most strange of sights.

Battle-Brother Frenix, one of the greeting party, had this to say: "We opened the ship of Chaos, and found the most baffling sight- just one living being, and the corpses of twelve others. All twelve corpses were Traitor Marines, mostly followers of Khorne, and one seemed to be stuck to the wall. Upon closer examination, it was revealed that his power-armor had quite effectively plugged a hull breach, and was sealed completely by what appeared to be the internal organs of the plug, frozen solid by the void outside. The lone survivor was, against all odds, just a lone human. He sat there, perched on the chest of another corpse; he had a witch-hunter's hat, two Bolters clearly purloined from Chaos, and was wearing a cross between Imperial Guard uniform and Inquisitorial Storm trooper uniform; and what appeared to be a shoulder-plate from a Khorne Berserker's power armor."

By all rights, he shouldn't have been able to use a great deal of the equipment described in the account, but the evidence in the pod would have suggested otherwise. At this point, Justicar Lachetus decided it would be prudent to scan his mind for a straight story, rather than ask questions. The resulting psychic feedback exploded the Justicar's brains over the wall, apparently. Further attempts to probe the soldier's mind did not yield such gory results, but merely a phenomenally strong psychic barrier. The leading theory is that the intital probe, combined with proximity to the warp, triggered a large well of latent ability.

I am not sure if this is related, but somewhere about this time, the planet decided to collapse in on itself, forming a mangled, angry ball of Chaos-tainted magma. This quite effectively put paid to a great deal of Silverite's past, so we cannot rule out his involvement in such a rare and unusual event.

* * *

Now, no records exist to contradict anything but a normal recruitment, but one thing led to another, and Silverite was made a Grey Knight by our Grand Master himself. Looking over the documentation which has survived until now, it seems the sole merit for Silverite's entry was his psychic ability. I am told that when he was in the Inquisition, he was an ideal soldier, and devout to the extreme; but as you've no doubt experienced, it's all gone somewhere else, and he's not the same man.

However, Silverite passed through our recruitment process with less fuss than you'd think, positively dancing his way through most of our six-hundred and sixty-six Rituals of Detestation, walking through the rest as if he was browsing an armory, and resisting all efforts to erase his personality, but conceding a little bit of ground with respect to his memory. A main worry for me, and our Chaplain Fernicus, is that while he was scanned as deeply as we could for any taint of Chaos in the first place, we encountered significant psychic resistance from him. Whether it was conscious or some other presence's doing, we recommended that he be watched carefully.

* * *

Anyway, here onwards, it's relatively easy to track Silverite's actions, as we've got tales aplenty to pick from; numerous accounts of a Grey Knight going toe-to-toe with Daemons, even more of same engaging in unfair games of chance with Heretics, and an unfeasible amount of stories concerning a Grey Knight surfing a Defiler through a rank of Orks. Overall, his performance in the field of combat has been exemplary, and he demonstrates a large amount of power and skill with his Nemesis force weapons. Despite this, he continues to use two silver-plated customized bolters; rumor has it that they are the very same instrument of Chaos he took from the dead hands of the Chaos Marines he slaughtered. I have personally asked Silverite about this, and he simply laughed, replying with: "Ironic, no? It positively tickles my fancy!"

One would deduce that the rumor is true, from that.

Silverite has been responsible for the leveling of several large armies alone; an Ork waaaagh has been one such victim. Expecting a fight, the would-be-victims, a battalion of Imperial Guard, were surprised to see the charging Orks glow with a pale blue light, and then with a soft "pffthff", a large amount of green mince suddenly threw itself against their very poor barricades. Some Guardsmen died regardless, buried in green mince, but much more than should have survived; one survivor reported seeing a silver space marine standing on a cliff nearby. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn that the marine was hunched over, pointing at the Ork mince, and laughing. Silverite's capability for destruction has been compared favorably to a Daemon Prince running rampant through a town of civilians; I leave it to you whether this bodes well or not.

* * *

With regards to Heresy; Silverite is quite serious, and seems to take a very no-shit, "kill it all" response to Heresy in particular. It doesn't really help that he perceives EVERYTHING he does not like as Heresy. He has incinerated sub-standard food with a flamer for being "Heretical", blew up a tank he was supposed to clean as a punishment for "Heresy" and he even executed a battalion of Guardsmen of which one man mocked his hat on the grounds that it was "a breeding ground for heretics, the lot of them."

When faced with Chaos, Silverite seems to be deterred not one bit, treating the whole encounter as if it were an unsavory, but necessary brush with a low-level hive-dweller. He has matched Khorne Berserkers for rage in melee combat, shouted down Noise Marines, and; this is the bizarre thing; records say he managed to seduce a squad of Daemonettes; which proceeded to worship him as a god until he threw them into a group of Plaguebearers.

Whispered rumors amongst the Grey Knights say that he managed to arrive in time at a summoning of An'ggrath the Unbound, and met the Bloodthirster in close combat; re-consigning him to the warp and narrowly preventing the slaughter of dozens of imperial worlds. Apparently, even though the Bloodthirster was not at full strength, and not yet fully in this world, it was only just within Silverite's power to defeat it, so we know that Silverite has limits; even if they are ridiculously high. I have not verified this tale, and nobody can attest to when exactly it occurred, so it may just be that, a rumor.

* * *

In conclusion, Silverite remains a largely unknown quantity. Direct him well, and he will decimate the emperor's foes; but let him idle, and I fear he will generate large amounts of borderline heresy. Regardless of how he is used, I'm just glad he's on our side.

The Emperor be with you,

Librarian Donovan Sride

+++++++++++++++++++++ Transmission End ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


	3. Michael and Silverite Mindwandering

_**Michael's Room, 2300 hours**_

Michael lay in bed, concentrating. Zara and Yoza had stated that while he could be quite powerful, he lacked a great deal of the finesse required for things like destruction of specific minds, moving things with only thought, and other fine parlor tricks. Thus, at his insistence, they had assigned him a regime of psychic training, but with emphasis on being careful; nobody wanted a Daemon appearing, most of all Michael. He shut his eyes, and his sense of balance shifted…

* * *

_**Michael's Mind-house, time not defined**_

He opened them to see the familiar sight of his own mind as a house. It was moderately sized, and it was made of marble. He opened the door, and stepped into a tastefully furnished entryway, with aesthetically pleasing and functional arches over each doorway. Twiddling his fingers, he moved into a room largely devoid of memories. Back when he'd first started, he'd wondered why this room was so large, and why it was so empty. A helpful plaque just inside told him that it was a room of memories attained during sleep… which explained why there wasn't many, and all the ones that were there, he'd put into a handy wall-embedded filing cabinet for safe-keeping. And so the room he used to practice his finesse in was defined.

In order to practice his control over his not-inconsiderable power, he had to use it. The best way to use it was to affect things around him. It was a testament to his cliché-filled mind that the first thing he thought of was bending spoons with his mind. Yoza didn't get it, why would someone distort perfectly good silverware? He was summarily introduced to The Matrix, and saw the light. It was probably just Michael, but he fancied that all his spoons in real life were a little bit more bent than they should be. But here in his mind, he had a lot of time and an endless supply of fresh spoons. According to Yoza, when he could make them into a small ball of steel and/or silver in a few seconds with thought, he would be skilled enough to try something more difficult like mind-walking. So far, Michael had seventy-five degrees on a spoon at a single point, in 72 hours of work. He had a while to go.

He was up to his first hour on a fresh spoon, and had ten degrees on it when a peculiar "pop" resounded through the house. Michael stood, confused. It was a weird noise, it didn't echo, and he wasn't sure he even heard it; it was like it just went from the sound source to his head. It was the noise that usually accompanied something foreign appearing. He left the sleep room, and entered the main area, where he usually talked with anyone who visited. Still nothing… he turned to leave the room, and stopped. He turned back around; on his left, was a door he hadn't seen before. It was big, made of polished steel, and had a big red button on it. He looked around; it would be just like Yoza to pop in and throw something like this at him. Michael drew the slightly bent spoon, and used it to poke the door itself. The spoon simply slid over the surface. He hit the metal, and it made a very solid-sounding "THUNK". Michael shrugged, and pressed the button.

The door slid open, and after allowing a cloud of fog to roll out of the door, he looked in. Michael's jaw dropped; he saw rolling green plains in a clearing ringed with weird-looking trees, and a neat little cottage sitting on top of a hill. Leading up to the hill was a path made of silver cobblestones. He stepped through the doorway, and felt a tingle wash over him as he did. Looking back, he saw nothing but forest, and a stone archway which had a rather pointless door in it.

He walked down the path slowly, wary of traps. But as he did so, he looked around. The sky was somewhat blue, but he thought he could see streaks of purple; the skyline behind the trees was dotted with mostly snowless mountains, one large active volcano, and a large tower. The tower did not look like fun; it had what seemed to be cages and spikes all over it. Michael shuddered, and hoped he wouldn't ever go there, wherever "there" was. He suddenly came to a halt as he bumped into a wall. Looking at it, he'd walked into the wall next to the door. He moved back, and opened the door, and saw a short corridor which seemed to be poorly lit compared to the outside. He stepped inside, and as he did so, the lighting seemed to shift in a most peculiar manner. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden change from darkness to pseudo-sunlight, he opened the next door, and his jaw dropped.

* * *

_**Mystery Cottage, somewhere wierd**_

There are stories of things like containers which are larger on the inside than they are on the outside. Some legends, and those things that you unpack, and when you try to put it back in, it won't fit; that sort of thing. None of that compared to this… fortress. The walls, made of a very solid-looking dull grey material stretched ten meters up into the sky, culminating in a steel-tiled ceiling which had a chandelier hanging from it. The walls were largely bare, save for a lot of things covered in black drapes, and banners with a picture of a giant silver S. There was a very large set of double-doors in the wall across from him.

"Greetings; before you advance any further, are you a vendor for the services of Chaos, by any chance?"

Michael jumped visibly, and looked down. In front of him was a rather short man in a butler's costume. It would have been humorous if the butler wasn't carrying an ornately-engraved silver shotgun. The barrel had a lion engraved around it, for the love of god. "No, I'm not a vendor for chaos, whatever that is."

"Good. Master does get quite agitated when salesmen visit, it takes a full hour for him to calm down. Are you expected?" The butler tucked the shotgun which was longer than he was tall into the back of his pants, where it managed to vanish without a trace.

"Expected? Probably not, to be honest." Michael was starting to wonder what this all was.

"Very good sir; would you like a drink?"

"Uh, coke if you got it." Michael stopped as a can of coke was held in front of him. "Where did you get that?"

"Never mind that, sir. Is it alright?"

Michael cracked the can open, and took a cautious sip, which he summarily sprayed over the nearest wall. "Oh god, it tastes like crap!"

The butler frowned. "But I added all the ingredients as specified… never mind. Here," he gestured at the large doors, "enter, please."

Michael put the can down on a convenient table, and did as the butler suggested; he entered the room. He was surprised to see a very castle-like setting, a mostly empty room walled and floored with the same weird grey material, but this time in cobbles. The far wall of the room had a large fireplace, with four large-backed chairs arranged around it, and the head of something with large teeth and horns over the mantelpiece. Murmurings of quiet discussion emanated from two of the chairs. Michael walked closer to the chairs, to see a man and a woman seated in the two chairs to the left.

"Uh, hello." Michael made a half-hearted attempt at a wave and felt very awkward. The two people stopped their talking and looked at him. Both looked genuinely glad to see him.

"Oh, Michael! Please, sit, sit!" The man, who had been holding a mug of fluid, put it down and made "sit" gestures with his hands. He was dressed in what looked like Imperial Guard fatigue pants, an olive-green singlet, and… he wore a wide-brimmed black hat, which seemed to cast quite a shadow over his face given the source of light that was the fire.

"Michael? Oh, the titan! I'm sorry, you just look so different when you're larger." The woman at least looked a little bit more uniform in appearance, wearing a full getup of what looked like rags. Her smile belied her wanting level of garb, and a staff with an Imperial eagle perched on top leant at rest, propped up between a small table and the side of the chair. She also had a cup of something, and it smelled like…

"Is that coffee?" Michael did as he was told, and sat.

"Yeah, it's like the only drink Kettle can get right, to be honest." The man picked up his mug, and took a long hard chug of it.

"Well, even if it is the only drink, I love it." The woman giggled, and took another sip, savoring the taste. Around her, the air itself seemed to get more… cheerful.

"Forgive me for asking, but… who are you two?" Michael had his hand up in a "I feel like I'm being really rude for doing this" gesture, and he managed to not jump as a mug was placed in it. Looking around, he saw the butler. How he'd managed to get there without making a sound was beyond Michael.

"I suppose it is hard to remember details on things so much smaller than yourself," the man conceded, "I'm Silverite, and this is Ishabeth, the sanctioned Psyker."

"Oh, I remember you two." Michael took a sip, and was surprised to find it was not only right, it seemed to be much better than the instant crap he usually drank at home.

"That's because Kettle learnt how to make coffee from a recipe involving very high-quality beans, apparently." Silverite said as he read Michael's surface thoughts and sniffed his mug, sighing in pleasure. "In a person's mind, as you no doubt know, there is no limit to what can be made in terms of creature comforts."

"Well, I'm glad Kettle learned with the best. But, Ishabeth, I thought you weren't supposed to drink this stuff."

"Normally, no," Ishabeth took a small sip before continuing, "but here in Silverite's mind, he contains any psychic dangers I might normally face or generate. Essentially, here I can live as I'd like without fear of the warp."

"We're in Silverite's mind? But I got here through a door in my own mind-house."

"The door… it wasn't yours, was it?" Silverite's face wasn't visible, but Michael sensed a grin of superiority.

"Not really. All mine are simple pine doors."

"What you did was allow yourself to be pulled from your own mind into mine. More accomplished and skilled Psykers than yourself such as the xenos Zara and Yoza can make trips into others minds at will, provided their destination's active resistance isn't too strong. Once you practice a bit more, you should have no worries with that. But for now, it's either people visiting you, or you being pulled to someone else's mind. Got all that?"

"I think so. So why did you invite me here?"

"Oh, well, er. Um," Silverite shifted uneasily, "truth is, it was an accident. There's so much psychic energy rubbing together, doorways like that tend to make themselves when you only mean to do one."

"'Only mean to do one'? What were you opening one for?"

"To let Ishabeth in. She lacks the skill to come to me under her own, quite strong power; so I open a pathway, and pull her in." Michael narrowed his eyes at Silverite, who sat up straighter, indignant. "For your information, it's purely as a favor to her. I have no interest in her, and I'm well aware of what Commissar Sturm would do to my face if he thought something was up, grey knight or no. She has so much trouble getting a good night's sleep, what with her random psychic outbreaks and all, so I give her some space here, and she can vent all she likes here while her body gets a good night's rest."

"Quite true, that and I get to drink recaf here." Ishabeth held up her mug, jiggling it.

"Okay…" Michael put any suspicion out of his mind, he'd seen and heard about what Silverite got up to on a daily basis; womanizing was not one of them… well, except for Canoness Samisha, who he continually hit on at every available opportunity. Everyone could see that he wasn't getting anywhere near "making more Inquisitors for the Emperor", but by god that didn't stop him trying. There were books running on just how long it would take for the Canoness to just give in, and give him what he wanted so he'd stop bugging her. The best odds were on about a decade at best, give or take a couple of months.

"Anyway, who's Kettle? Isn't he that shield drone that hangs out with you?"

"Right here, sir." Michael jumped once more as the butler, ever stealthy, appeared at his elbow once more. "I am Shield Drone K377-13, designated "Kettle" by master Silverite over there."

"Wait just a moment, Kettle;" Michael held up a hand to halt any argument, "you are a robot, so how are you here?"

"I have been upgraded with a standard Imperial human-machine interface normally used by the Adeptus Mechanicus. This interface allows me to connect to Silverite's neural system, and go where he goes." Kettle presented himself with a small flourish, "And here I am, in the flesh."

"One of my better ideas, that. There's a few problems, like his height, though," Silverite began, putting down his mug, "No matter how hard I try, I can't get him to materialize as someone taller. In addition to that, he doesn't walk, he slides." Michael looked at Kettle, who promptly moved away, his legs remaining in what appeared to be contact with the ground, but not moving; much like a very broken videogame animation.

"Oh, Silver." The two men looked at Ishabeth, who was standing and had picked up her staff, "Didn't you say you'd take me on a tour today?"

"Oh, frak, I clean forgot. Here, let's go. You're welcome to tag along, Michael." Silverite beckoned, and led Ishabeth to a door on the left. Michael drained his mug of coffee, and looking around for Kettle, dropped it. In a black and white blur, Kettle was in front of him, platter on hand, with the mug rattling around in circles as it settled right-way up.

"Very crafty, sir, very sly. But as the saying goes, 'I am wise to your tricks'." Kettle bowed, and slid away through a door on the opposite side of the room to the one Silverite had just left through. Michael shut his open mouth, and followed Silverite.

* * *

"…and here is my Librarium General." Michael caught up with the pair as they were standing outside a room which had no door. The inside of the reasonably large room was empty save for a table in the center, with a large, thick book on it.

"What's a Librarium?" Michael itched his head, and had a small idea of what it might be.

"Physical manifestation of everything I know. This is the Librarium General, which is all my knowledge of the random, little things I hear; like pass-codes, gossip and navigation."

"Doesn't look like you have much, Silverite."

"Hmm. You're quite right, I should fill it up a bit. Half that book's about the entity known as Brangelina, anyway." Silverite moved on, and stopped at the next door. "This room is my Librarium Hereticus."

Michael looked through the doorway, and his jaw dropped. The room was twice as big as the Librarium General; and its walls were packed with books all arranged neatly on shelves. In the middle of the room, more filled shelves were positioned. "Wha… guh… huh?" Michael continued to make incoherent noises, gesturing at thin air.

"That's right; I know a lot about Heresy." Silverite seemed to be looking at his fingernails in an air of 'I'm awesome, and I know it'. He continued walking, and walked right past a big rusty metal door.

"Hey, what's in here?" Ishabeth looked at the door, and tapped it with her staff, which glowed. "Chaos? Your mind is tainted by Chaos?" She looked at Silverite, who was suddenly adopting an air of innocence. "What are the forces of chaos doing in here?"

"Ah, I think I'd rather not talk about that one. The door's sealed, and the darkness is well secured; Nothing to worry about." As he said that, a loud THUNK emanated from the door, the shape of a horned head pressed itself out of the rusty steel, and some rust flakes and a bolt fell out of the top. "Ah, ha ha." Silverite eased between Ishabeth and the door, and not-so-subtly kicked the head-dent back in. "Let's keep going, shall we?"

"Master Silverite!" Michael jumped as Kettle blurred past him to stand in front of Silverite. "We have yet another visitor."

"What kind?"

"Annoying."

"Aw, frak. Chaos sorcerer."

"Do you want me to deal with him?" Kettle suddenly had the silver shotgun in his hand.

"No, no, we must be courteous… even if he IS a servant of Chaos." Silverite adjusted his hat, and pulled a jacket from nowhere, putting it on. He then proceeded back the way they had come, leaving Ishabeth and Michael to stand there.

"Did he say 'Chaos sorcerer?'" Michael had a finger on his chin in thought, recalling the lore about Chaos that Vincent had told him.

"Yes, he did. They're no lightweights, we should go help him." Ishabeth set a straight face, hefted her staff which began to glow, and marched off after Silverite, Michael trailing behind, uncertain.

* * *

"All grandfather Nurgle wants is that you spread a little daemonic pestilence everywhere. Is it really that hard?" Silverite was leaning in the main doorway, listening to a rather diseased-looking traitor marine.

"Well, how much time would I be spending on that?" Ishabeth and Michael stopped, listening to the very odd conversation happening in front of them.

"Well, for a commitment of ten to fifteen hours a week, you could get one or more blessings from Nurgle every month! Spread the word to at least 20 misguided souls for a miracle!"

"I dunno, sounds like a lot of work. I mean, what if they already worship a facet of Chaos?"

"Even better!"

"Ah, I reckon Tzeentch's boy had a better sell the other day. He was talking five hours of work, tops, and I'd get miracles by the half-dozen."

"But what would worshipping Tzeentch offer over Nurgle? I mean, look at the health benefits!" The plague marine held up his hands, and a lump of something fell off one of his arms. "I'm never getting Catachanian Flu ever again!"

"Neeh… I'll give you a call back if I change my mind. How about that?"

"Most excellent, hygienic one. Just call 1-800-DISEASE and we'll send you a care package." The marine, looking pretty pleased with his diseased self, turned and began to walk away triumphantly. He was quickly stopped when his malformed head was turned to goop by a shotgun blast. Silverite, for his part, blew smoke off the hot barrel of the silver shotgun.

* * *

"You alright Silverite?" Ishabeth advanced cautiously on Silverite, who was handing his gun back to Kettle, and rubbing his hands together.

"Right as rain, but it really annoys me when the ruinous powers think they can win me over with a terrible sell such as that one." He yawned, and stretched. "That's the third salesman this week. The only one I haven't had yet is a Slaanesh… they're about the only fun ones."

"So, what was all that, Silverite?" Michael was trying to get his head around the fact that Silverite had just had a mostly nice talk with a servant of Chaos, and nobody had gotten hurt until right at the end.

"Oh, just some flunkies trying to convert me to Chaos; they've given up on the 'perils of the warp' tactic of just attacking this house. I think the worst one they ever did was a squad of Sorcerers backed up with a Bloodthirster. Smashed the Sorcerers at their own game of mind-destruction, and locked up that Bloodthirster tight. You saw its holding pen."

"Wait, you have a Bloodthirster in your mind?" Michael cast his memory back to the rusty door and the angry thing concealed within.

"Yes indeed. I'll save it for a time when someone like Tzeentch manages to almost pull one over. That Bloodthirster's been so killing-deprived for so long, he'll butcher 'most anything that isn't me."

"Why not you?" Ishabeth put up her staff, and scratched her hair with it.

"Would you be quick to go toe-to-toe with someone that handed your scaly ass to you in recent memory?" Silverite held up his hands in a gesture, "I might not be at full strength when it's let loose, but I beat that thing by using my head. Here, look." He pulled a picture frame out of his pocket, and gave it to them. Looking at the picture, Ishabeth and Michael saw a depiction of a man with a hat holding onto a big horned demon's horns, head-butting it. The picture shimmered, and showed the same man with a booted foot resting on the side of the defeated demon's head.

"Well, this has been fun, but I think it's a good idea I got going. I have a lot of training to do." Michael started edging towards the door, which no longer had the plague-bearer's corpse in front of it; Kettle must have cleaned it up already.

"Training, eh? Here, I'll walk you to the gate. Excuse me, Ishabeth." Ignoring Michael's quiet protestations and futile resistance, the hatted man dragged him out the door and down the path. "What kind of training?"

"Bending spoons into a small ball." Michael held up his metal spoon, which he'd brought along with him.

"Bending, eh?" Silverite took the spoon, and glared at it. In a second, it contorted and collapsed into a very rough ball, which he held out to Michael. "How's that?"

Michael gawped at the ball of metal, which he held up to the light and examined. "That's really good. How'd you do it?"

"Dunno, living next to the eye of terror seems to have that effect on people. You don't often have psykers in those worlds, but when you do, they either explode or turn out really good. Usually explode, perils of the warp and all that jazz." Silverite pushed the gate open, to reveal Michael's rather spartan mind-house. "Here's your stop, Michael. Have fun, tip waitresses, and BUY MORE POTATO CHIPS. We're fresh out." With that, Silverite exerted considerable strength and shoved Michael through the gate.

Michael landed face-down on carpet, and slid, coming to a gentle halt as his head softly bumped into a wall. He got up and dusted himself off as he looked at the wall he'd just come out of. Surprisingly, there was nothing there, just a small painting. He walked over and looked at the painting in more detail; it was the picture of a man head-butting a Bloodthirster. He laughed, and exited the mind-house.

* * *

_**Michael's Room, 0800 hours**_

Michael opened his eyes, and tried not to barf as his sense of balance re-asserted itself properly. He sat up in his bed, and stopped when a rather loud crinkling noise sounded. He felt around, and found the culprit; a piece of paper. He looked at the paper which contained writing that looked like it was done with a crayon by someone who had no ability at writing. In red crayon, the words "DON'T FORGET" were scrawled in 100-pt font across the paper. Next to where he'd found the note, his shopping list and a pen was waiting.


	4. Silverite: Kathryn

The witch ran.  
With every frenzied step she took, she moved one step closer to escape. Escape from the dogs of the false Emperor, the fools who worshipped a corpse. She was not armed with firearms or blades, but then, she was a Psyker; one of the genetic anomalies that cropped up; needed by all, loved by none; and for good reason, Psykers had a habit of drawing on just a smidgen too much power, and releasing things that most would rather not speak of.  
Of course, this was no problem for her or her comrades; as worshippers of the great Tzeentch himself, inadvertently summoning a daemon could only be a good thing. The only problem was, she'd be dead; and she had no plans to become so anytime soon.  
She looked up, and through a haze of mild oxygen deprivation, saw a light at the end of the tunnel; the exit. Just 100 more metres and she'd be more or less free - running rampant in a city that was largely unaware of her power, and with a body that would all but force anything with a Y chromosome to do her bidding. If that wasn't freedom, "Black" Kat Damocles wouldn't know what was.

It was about time some luck was due her way; she'd spent the last few weeks running from some particularly resilient and determined witch-hunters. Despite her foregoing of the finer things in life, and some fairly brutal traps, they'd managed to catch her napping... literally. Someone with very little psychic presence had gotten close enough to put her under with a plank of wood. When she woke, she was in a poorly furnished cell, with little avenue for escape. There was always the old "chip the mortar out from around a block" option, but her execution party was due in about six hours.  
Then, the mysterious helper; not one of her pawns, but still familiar in how it moved, a shadowy figure, moving with grace and power, plunging the area into darkness before incapacitating her captors, and setting her free.  
She'd paused only to grab the power-maul off one of the guards, and when she looked up, nothing. Not even a scent lingering in the air; interesting, and worrying; she'd never met someone who could hide from her and her supernatural sense of smell; she'd found spies in crowds of loyalists by scent alone, traps by the scent that people had left by standing in one spot for a fraction of a second too long.  
Well, that wasn't true – she'd met just one who could hide from her nose; but that was years ago, and he was probably dead now.

Kat shook her head, and kept up the pace, her tattered robe fluttering around her bare legs, amulet bearing the symbol of Tzeentch bouncing off her chest, dirty blonde hair streaming out behind her as she ran. Just ten metres to the door; five, one, zero! She was out! She was free- ohshit-  
She tried to stop, she really did. Dug her heels in, winced at the pain of doing something like that on rough perma-crete. But she still had a lot of momentum, and all of it went into the armoured arm that protruded from a slit in the wall. Positioned at about neck-height, she choked as the arm barely gave; indeed, it pushed back, even, bowling her torso back and sending her ass-over-tit onto the ground, where she landed back-first, thoroughly winded. She looked up and saw her power-maul come spinning down, to land squarely in the palm of the arm which had so efficiently decked her. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was the end of the baton rushing towards her face, crackling with power.

* * *

Kat cracked open an eye; she was not, as expected, back where she had started. The somewhat familiar setting of her depressing cell was gone, replaced with the vision of a dimly-lit, circular area; some sort of sewerage hug, judging by the smell and sound of water.  
Kat rose, clicked her neck, and noted that she was not chained. She rubbed her face; nothing broken, amazingly. Whoever had used the power-maul on her knew their crowd-control weapons, and set it to just the right level of power. Fascinating.  
She examined the room; it was big, round and reasonably tall-ceilinged. The lights were on, but it was dim. Enough to see by, not enough that anybody should try and read a book by the light.  
She also saw several exits; exactly five doors, all closed, all unmarked, all evenly spaced. She spun around on one foot, and set off towards one door. As she put a hand out to push the latch, a voice rang out.  
"I wouldn't try it, witch."  
Kat ignored the voice. It was clearly a trick by her captors, to keep her imprisoned by fear. There was absolutely no harrrrrraaaaaaaaa-  
There was a flash of light, and Kat was thrown backwards, sliding to a halt, her hair standing on end. Okay, so there really was harm in trying it.  
"No entrapment by fear here, witch; only entrapment by high voltage." Kat got up, to see who was speaking; in the centre of the room, a large figure in a cloak stood, idle.  
"Are you the one who helped me escape the Inquisition?" Kat brushed her clothing flat again, and smoothed out her hair; luckily, it didn't want to stay up.  
"Indeed. Although, "escape" is a bit of a stretch, seeing as you never really got out." The figure seemed to be speaking, albeit through a vox-caster. They hadn't moved an inch.  
"What's your game, hm? Want in with Tzeentch? Like what you see?"  
"I'll not deny it," conceded the figure, shifting slightly, "I would like to get a taste of what I see. But, it just would be plain wrong to do you, no offence." He gestured, and a dull metallic glint was revealed; the same arm from before. "And as to Tzeentch, I want nothing to do with that two-timing, cheap bastard. He's made his sells, and they were absolute shit. Nurgle had a better sell; _Nurgle_! And all he granted was crippling disease and the kind of abscesses that would tickle a Slaaneshi fetish, somewhere."  
Kat shuddered, the unbidden image of a Slaaneshi follower doing something obscene with a Nurglite rebounding through her head like a hot bullet. It would drive a lesser woman to suicide, that. The figure laughed.  
"Got you, didn't I? Ah, you're the same as ever, Kat. No head for the wierd, grisly, or plain wrong."  
Kat stopped cringing, and was alert, "How do you know me?"  
"My dear, I've known you for years now; only about 30 years in my time, closer to half a millennium in real-time." The figure cast aside his cloak, to reveal-  
"Adeptus astartes," breathed Kat, panicking. The super-soldiers of the Imperium were deadly, strong, and fast; one was easily a match for a squad of cultist-soldiers. Good thing you rarely got more than a squad of 10 on you; although, that said, if you had the full 10, you were unequivocally dead. What made things worse was that this particular astartes had silver armour and insignia that picked him out as one of the best of the lot; a Grey Knight.  
And it threw up questions; how would a grey knight know her for most, if not her entire life? A child-hood friend? Questions, questions, questions, and no answers to be had.  
"I suppose it's nice to see that you're well learned in the forces of the Imperium, Kat. Education was always thin on the ground, back on Arsenia." Kat perked up at the mention of her home-world. "Ah, yes; recognition. Tell you what, Kathryn Damocles," the Grey Knight began pacing, never taking his eyes off Kat, "Guess my full name in 3 guesses before I kill you, and not only do you live, but I'll even help you to whatever rock you want to go to. Take too long, and... well, You die. I love a good game, what about you?"  
Kat tried to comprehend what was going on; a Grey Knight, supposedly psycho-conditioned to never even show quarter to the likes of her, was offering her a game in which she could, in theory, win, and gain absolute freedom.  
She liked those odds.  
"I'll accept your challenge, Grey Knight."  
"Excellent."

The two were on opposite sides of the room, squaring up to fight, Kat running through a list of names that might be right.  
"Alright, Kat, I'm feeling... generous today. I'll tell you what my name isn't, as a freebie: Silverite." Kat was both shocked and thankful at this revelation; she'd been eyeing the name-plate on the marine's shoulder pauldron, and that had been her first guess. It also niggled at her; it sounded really familiar. She cast it aside; it was not, as the marine had stated quite clearly, Silverite.  
She paused, and grinned. Or was it? This was a plot, intended to throw her from the scent. His real name was...  
"Your name _is_ Silverite!"  
She heard the sound of a ceramite gauntlet hit a helmet on the other side of the room.  
"Didn't I just say it _wasn't_ Silverite? You're not very good at picking a trick question. I'm sorry, but that still counts. Try again." And with that, the grey knight leapt across the room, in a shallow-arc leap that brought him to within a metre of Kat. Before she could react, he knelt and spun, leg extended. With a single blow to her ankles, she was, for the second time that day, spun around a full circle to land on her back, heavily.

Kat wheezed; being slammed into the ground was not conductive to good thinking.  
"Now, I'd make this a fast one, Kat... contrary to the popular saying, I _can_ do this all day. I don't think you could, however. How about a second hint?" The marine leapt into the air, spinning. Kat rolled out of the way in desperation, just as a ceramite heel slammed into the ground where she had been previously. "The second hint, then: I was part of a squad, but never truly part of it."  
Kat racked her mind, and-  
"Leon Malkovitch!" blurted Kat. The sniper of that squad of guardsmen... she couldn't remember the name of the squad, but the augmented sniper had been quite aloof, and rarely worked directly with the team.  
"That's a second wrong answer, Kat." The grey knight straightened, and threw a quick right-hook; by the slightest of margins, Kat avoided the punch, rolling to safety. She had one guess left, and no idea who it would be; that meant fighting was the only option. She drew back her hand, and pushed it forward, drawing on the eldritch power of the warp as she did so. Terrible at planning and logic she might have been, but Tzeentch always favoured a strong psyker, and she was quite capable of rumbling with the best of them. A bolt of dark lightning seared across the narrow space, catching the knight square on the shoulder, and he collapsed, a significant hole in his pauldron. Kat punched the air, and readied another bolt. This was too easy, she should have thought of this sooner. With more confidence, she threw another bolt of lightning at the still target. A gauntleted hand shot up, and with a cupping motion, caught the bolt. The bolt, condensed into a small, dark ball of energy, remained in the Knight's grasp as he sat up, and rose; the hole revealed that the first bolt had not managed to penetrate the pauldron completely.  
"Predictable, Kat; you never were any good at sparring, always repeating a move if it worked. So many rounds lost to that same failing, and you never fixed it." The knight threw the ball of energy under-armed, and it shot across the space between them, striking her in the solar plexus, winding her for the umpteenth time. As she gasped for breath, the knight strode towards her, and Kat had an idea.  
Acting purely on instinct, she wound back her leg, and gave it a good kick towards the groin of the space marine. About halfway through this manoeuvre, she realized just how bad an idea it was; she wasn't wearing any sort of shoes or leg armour, and she'd just kicked a man clad in what was pretty much a stone-analogue, in the groin, where there was an armour plate. It hurt, and not for the Marine.  
"Low blow, Kat; that sort of thing will get you nowhere." The knight wound back his arm, and with no mercy, delivered an uppercut to the chin of the hopping witch, lifting her a good foot off the ground. She landed, hard. Through a mild concussion, she recognized that punch; the way the knight stood, delivered his punches, even his preference for an opening punch, a right hook, the squad reference, the childhood hint... there was only one man who fit that description. The name of the squad was even named after the man! The man's name was...  
"Sergeant Gustav "Cockpit" Graves! That was your name!"

The knight paused his advance, and looked down. Kat's heart rose; had she guessed right at the last?  
"Sergeant Graves? My dear, dear Kat..." The knight twisted his helmet, and with a hiss of the internal pressure being released, removed it. A man's head with short hair was revealed, and the marine's blue eyes met her own, "You killed Sergeant Graves not three years ago, did you not?"  
Kat's heart fell, and she realized her error; she had indeed killed the man she named three years ago.  
"Fine; I give up, who are you?"  
"This is a sorry state of events, Kat; you got so close with the guess of 'Leon', but the guess of 'Graves'... I mean, you killed him! How could you? You knew who he was, and the man was like a father to us!"  
Realization dawned on Kat; she'd been racking her memories so hard that she'd ignored the one other person who could have fit that description; he'd trained with Sergeant Graves for years, and had practically the same fighting style; he was part of the team, but never officially; He'd known her for years, and that was-  
"How could you not recognize your own brother, Kathryn? I carried you across half the planet after cultists razed our village! I protected you from those who would do you harm! I was your world, and you mine! And yet, you forget me." The knight turned around, turning his helmet in his hands, "I can't blame too much, though. It was partially my fault that you got abducted; if I hadn't needed the help of the squad, perhaps they would have stopped that sorcerer from taking you..."  
The knight turned around again, helmet back on and sealed.  
"Enough about the past, Kat; by the rules of our game, you have made guesses thrice at my name, and failed. Death is the penalty, and it shall be swift." The marine drew his bolter; a rapid-fire rocket-launcher in the hands of a regular human, and little more than a sub-machinegun in the hands of an astartes; more than enough to reduce Kat to pulp.  
"Why? You're my brother, why would you do this?" Kat sunk to her knees, tears forming in her eyes, "Is this how you protect your only sister? You should help me escape! Blood is thicker than water, after all!"  
"Kathryn, that might be so; but blood is so much harder to forgive; and you've spilt a great deal of it against the Emperor. I was responsible for you from the day Father died, and I am still responsible for you now; while you live and kill the Emperor's followers, I cannot lay the past to rest." The knight raised his bolter, and the sound of the safety clicking off echoed throughout the chamber. "It kills me to do this, but I can only place my loyalty to one and one alone, and it's not you." The marine made a noise which sounded like a choked-back sob. "May the Emperor find a place for you at his table, sister."  
Kat opened her mouth to say one last word, and it was drowned out in the sound of the bolter firing just once.

* * *

Silverite sat up, in a cold sweat. Judging by the obscure infomercials on the television, it was about 3 in the morning. Noticing his sudden rise, Kettle floated up, and bleeped a question.  
"It was nothing, Kettle; just a dream."  
Another bleeped question, and a concerned-face lit up on the little shield-drone's screen.  
"It wasn't a prediction, or of the future, Kettle; just a dream of events long since passed."  
Kettle bleeped a confirmation, and deactivated it's grav-lifts, returning to sleep mode. Silverite did the same, lying back down on the couch-arm that was serving as a bed, returning to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

_Silverite dropped his arm to his side, bolter smoking. Never before had the trigger been so hard to pull.  
"Why," asked Kathryn, as she felt the side of her head where the bolter shell had grazed it, "just... why?"  
"I can't do it. Not even for the Emperor. I just... can't." Silverite re-engaged the safety on his bolter, and returned it to its magnetic clamp on his leg."  
"What happens now," asked Kat.  
"I don't know, Just run; I never saw you, you never saw me. Now, go."  
"But..."  
"Go!" Silverite turned, and walked away, pausing only to scoop up a dark shape and put it on top of his helmet.  
"When will I see you again?" Kat got up, legs a bit unsteady.  
"Never in this lifetime."  
"Why? Why not?" Kat demanded, voice shaking.  
"I couldn't bring myself to do it." Silverite muttered to himself, seemingly ignoring Kat.  
"Why!"  
"I... couldn't. So many lives lost at my hands, and one more should give me pause?" Silverite looked at his gauntleted hands, and Kat watched as the man who was once her brother faded into darkness, leaving nothing but smoke behind.  
She turned around; a door was open, and freedom beckoned. She ran with mixed emotion; joy, sorrow, regret. She opened the door, and was blinded by the sunrise, shining a brilliant red through the pollution-streaked sky. She raised a hand to shield her eyes, marvelling at its beauty. Perhaps a change was required; Chaos wasn't as cracked up as it was made out to be, and if her dorky brother could become a space marine, perhaps she could, too.  
She never saw the bullet coming from the sun, never knew what hit her. Kat Damocles' soul was snuffed out in an instant.  
On a rooftop in the glare of the sun, a Culexus Assassin stood up, and activated a comm-bead.  
"Target eliminated, returning to base."  
The assassin turned to leave, and was somewhat surprised to find that he'd inadvertently stepped into thin air. He accepted his fate as he fell 35 stories to his death.  
Before he hit the ground, he noted a shape that looked like an Adeptus Astartes standing on the roof behind him, adorned in a cloak and wearing a large hat._


	5. The Highlander

A console bleeped, and the operator listened to a headphone intently, before signalling to the centre of the room, and pushing a key.

"Sir," the voice of a man crackled over the low-quality transmission, "Epsilon squad reporting in – we've engaged heretical forces."

Major Sigmund of the Imperial Guard jabbed a finger at where Epsilon should be, and looked up from his map. Tactically, it was useless. Holding that area of ground was impossible, there was no cover of any sort, nor any real advantage. And yet, units had been going missing repeatedly in the area – Epsilon had orders to go through the area, and report any contact.

"Lieutenant, how many?"

"Sir, I think... just one."

"Only one? Is it..." the Major paused, loath to even consider one of those... aberrations... on the battlefield and the havoc it would wreak.

"Negative, sir; One humanoid, no visible abnormalities, Wearing standard issue IG armour, no visible markings."

"Are you sure it's not one of ours?"

"Negative, Major - he's carrying a large sword, very plain, and soaked in blood." The speaker emitted noises like someone shuffling around a bit before the Lieutenant continued, "He's not doing much. Apart from the sword, he's just standing there."

"Well, hail him, then. See what he's up to."

"Yessir." The sound of clothes rustling as someone waved a hand about, and then:

"_Hey, you! This is Sergeant Delruze of Epsilon. What's your unit, soldier?"_

A voice, presumably that of the lone soldier, responded clearly, _"You have but one life, if you value it, turn back now!"_

"_Answer me, soldier," _persisted Delruze,_ "What is your unit? Where is your squad?"_

"_I have no allies; I am alone, as I always shall be. Now, turn back, or else."_

A shuffling noise indicated the Sergeant returning to cover, _"Couldn't get anything out of him, Lieutenant."_

"We can't get anything out of the man, Major – only a warning to turn back."

"Is there a minefield or something?"

"Not that we can detect. Auspex shows nothing, no evidence to suggest otherwise."

The Major stroked his chin. "Well, he's had his chance. Kill him."

"Yessir." Another rustling of another hand signal, and the sound of a lasgun being propped into position could be heard.

_"Fire when ready, guardsman,"_ the Lieutenant said to the designated shooter.

_"Yessir!"_ There was a short, sharp puff as the lasgun discharged one shot, and a small grunt of satisfaction. The Lieutenant returned to the headset.

"Clean shot, sir. Right through the head, and he went down."

"Good work, Epsilon." The Major began to draw a large red X through the area of map, "Return to base, there's more to be done."

"Yes si- what?" There was some hurried whispering, and the Lieuentant returned, "Uh, Major. I have a correction."

Sigmund stopped, and looked back at the speaker. "What do you mean?"

"Uh, sir, we shot him clean, but... he's getting back up."

"Well, shoot him again, Lieutenant! Think for yourself!"

"We did. He didn't stop."

"_Come, end my suffering! BEST ME IN COMBAT!"_

"What was-" the Major leaned closer.

"Major, the target is now advancing on us, twirling the blade. It is a long blade, two handed, and he's waving it around like a baton with one hand."

"Keep shooting until he's dead!"

"Affirmative," the Lieutenant addressed the rest of the squad, _"Open fire!"_

The sound of twenty las-weapons being discharged more or less at the same time reverberated throughout the command room, and all the officers turned to look at the speaker.

_"Epsilon, affix bayonets! Prepare for close combat!"_

"_Yes, sir!"_

Silence followed; until the sound of a Guardsman shouting as he charged the unseen enemy.

_*swi-thck*_

_"By the throne, he just cut Sweetwater's head clean off! Charge!"_

_*swi-thick* *schlock* *schling* *schwick* *thuk* *scuruch*_

Six loud thumps followed.

_"This man's unstoppable! Don't hold back! Give it your all!"_

The Major winced as the sounds of Guardsmen being decapitated got steadily louder, until-

*SCH-LOP* *THUMP*

Silence reigned, and the signal cut out. The major sat back, knowing that he'd just heard an entire squad get beheaded in less than three minutes.

"Sir," another Lieutenant in the command room interjected, "the assistance you requested from the Adeptus Astartes has arrived."

"Excellent."

* * *

"This is it?"

"Major Sigmund, what do you mean, "This is it?" You are fortunate that a chapter deigned to send you even one Adeptus Astartes – let alone a Grey Knight."

The speaker was a seven-foot-tall juggernaut in mostly plain ceramic-grey power armour – the colours of Chapter 666: The Grey Knights. This particular specimen seemed to take more pride in evidence of work, and so bits of gore were encrusted around the knees and knuckles on his gauntlets; riding pride of place on his thighs, in custom holsters, were two bolter guns – the very same weapons that a guardsman would struggle to fire with two hands like a rifle. The nemesis force-weapon which was the trademark weapon of the Grey Knights was strapped to his back, a broad-bladed short-sword, with a warped edge and it smelt faintly of ozone. And to top it all off, on top of the Space Marine's helmet rode-

"A hat? Why do you have a hat? You are wearing a helmet."

"It's not just A hat. It's MY hat," responded Silverite, Grey Knight and general Errant.

"Okay. It is your hat. Now, how do you propose to help me with retaking this continent?"

"I was thinking that you could tell me, or I could just go beat up cultists and heretics." Silverite punched his hands together, "It's totally up to you how you deploy me."

Major Sigmund pondered it for a moment, and then realized how he could use the one astartes. "I have a particular enemy that needs eliminating. One solder has personally killed four of my squads in an area."

"Well, what would you have me do about it? Cheer your men on? Or do I get to kill him?"

"You get to take him on all by yourself, if that would make you happy."

"It would. Where is he?"

* * *

"You have but one life! If you value it, turn back now."

The rogue guardsman and the physically imposing grey knight stared each other down. Silverite reached for his sword, and brought it into his hands. The smell of ozone intensified.

"You think you can defeat me, robot?"

"I'm no automaton! Why does everyone keep saying that about my armour?"

"Not a robot? Then prove it to me! Show your face, so that I might know who I am killing."

"...I will do this."

Silverite stabbed his sword into the ground, point first, and it sat there, quivering slightly, as the Grey Knight removed his helmet and hat.

"I am Silverite of the Grey Knights! I am yet to meet the man who is my equal in combat!"

The guardsman responded, "I am Lazarus the Immortal, slayer of thousands and unbeaten in combat!" Lazarus hefted his blade, and with a twirl, brought it into an attack posture, "Kill me this day, or it will be me who kills you!"

Silverite refastened his helmet and retrieved his blade. "Enough talk, have at you!"

The two warriors leapt towards each other, swinging their blades. Silverite ducked as the longer reach of Lazarus' claymore swished over his head, and struck; his swing was blocked by the hilt of Lazarus' blade. The two leapt back.

"You're fast, Silverite, very fast. But how fast are you?" Lazarus twirled his blade once more, and settled with it in a low posture, blade ready to swing.

"What's the deal with your blade? I should have sliced clean through it!"

"This blade... with every head I sever, this blade's power and my own increase."

"A daemon weapon!"

"You could say that. I have made no deals with daemons, though."

"It is your own head which shall further fuel that blade of yours!" Silverite dashed in once more, swinging his blade. As he did so, his strike was parried by Lazarus; which left him open to what was in Silverite's other hand.  
Silverite brought his hand up, full of crackling energy, and fired the doom-bolt at close range. The bolt seared through what little distance there was, and impacted on Lazarus' head, exploding it in an instant. Silverite stepped back as the headless body of Lazarus staggered slightly, and sunk down. He cleared some of the blood and other fluids from his visor and hat, and turned to leave.

"Where are you going? We're not done yet."

Silverite spun, to see Lazarus, kneeling, as the top half of his head slowly rematerialized and regenerated.

"You are surely a daemon!"

"Not at all; I am Lazarus, the Immortal. I have walked this Imperium of man for millennia, since before the dark age of technology." Lazarus rose, picking up his sword, "This blade has granted me eternal life; I must be defeated in single combat by the one who is strong enough to decapitate me. I have lived by the sword, and I must die by it."

"Cut your head off? Sounds easy enough," Silverite commented as he twirled his blade, and swung it to the side at Lazarus' neck-height.

"Easy? You are a formidable as an opponent as I have ever met in combat, but you are mortal. Despite your armour and modifications, you are just a man." Lazarus brought his sword to bear, "I will not stop you trying, though – come at me, Silverite the Grey Knight. Show me your moves."

Silverite didn't respond with words, but action, his form becoming a silver blur as he closed the gap between them, and attacked. The pair struck and parried across the clearing, sparks flying whenever the two blades met. The two blades seemed to glow, leaving trails where they swung; Silverite's blade glowing a cold blue, and Lazarus' blade a lambent red.

With an almighty clash, the two were thrown back from each other, and they caught their breath. Both blades were heavily pitted where they had blocked strikes or parried thrusts.

"Face it, Knight – your blade is not sharp enough to destroy mine; nor can you move fast enough to beat my defence. You have lost this battle."

"Not sharp enough?" Silverite straightened, holding his blade out in front of him, horizontally, "Lazarus, this blade's just getting warmed up."  
The smell of ozone intensified once again, even stronger, and Silverite's blade was wreathed in silver flame, sparks of energy danced up and down through the fire.

"If you think a little occult fire will push your blade through mine and my neck, feel free." Lazarus re-adjusted his hold, and charged once more, and swung his blade, just as Silverite forced more psychic power into his blade, and it flared ever brighter as he also attacked.  
The two blades met, with a titanic flash of light and explosion, and the sound of a million screaming souls.

* * *

The dust cleared. The two men remained in their swinging postures, a large crater of dirt around them. There was a sound of sliding metal, and half of Lazarus' blade completely severed from the hilt, melted clean through the middle of the blade's length. The hilt was pointing directly at the opposite side of Silverite's neck.

Silverite's sword ceased its silver flame, and with a feeble spark, crumbled into shards. The blade had possessed just enough strength to make one last cut through Lazarus' neck before it broke.

"What... power... truly, you are... a god among men..." gasped Lazarus.

Silverite straightened up, and watched the still-living head of Lazarus slowly slide from its stump, and fall to the ground. He watched it roll face-up, and it mouthed two words.

_Thank you._

With that, it twitched, and the eyes rolled back. The main body keeled over with a soft thud. Silverite adjusted the set of his hat, and picked up the hilt of the claymore. Now that there were no souls trapped in the blade, it merely looked very old, and incredibly battle-worn; he could make out a much worn inscription on the hilt: _There can be only one_. As he watched, the hilt crumbled into flakes of rust, and then turned to powder.

A voice echoed through Silverite's head: "_A dangerous artefact, to be sure - At least it fell into Lazarus' hands; who knows what would have happened if a less scrupulous person had seized it?_"

"What, indeed," mused Silverite, "Well, it's destroyed now, can't do no harm anymore, that's for certain."

"_I would have much rather preferred that you take it whole, such a weapon would be indispensable in our quest. I guess it is only right that Lazarus should be the final master of the blade. No matter, there is always the Umbra sword._"

Silverite watched as the wind blew away what remained of the Highlander Blade, and turned back towards HQ.


End file.
